Cry for the Moon
by xXWrittenSinsXx
Summary: Stiles is tired of feeling weak and useless. He wants to be able to protect the people he cares about, instead of just watching from the sidelines. When his father is attacked, it's the final straw. He does the unthinkable and his life begins to unfold before him. Full summary inside. Derek/Stiles


Summary: Stiles is tired of feeling weak and useless. He wants to be able to protect the people he cares about, instead of just watching from the sidelines. When his father is attacked, it's the final straw. He does the unthinkable and his life begins to unfold before him.

— Excerpt —

Stiles knew he was being reckless—no, this went beyond just reckless. He was always reckless. This... There wasn't even a word for this level of stupidity. And yet, knowing he was probably making the biggest mistake in his life, he approached the building without looking back. He had already made his decision the second he had laid eyes on his father in a hospital bed.

Author's note: Story begins two weeks after the season two finale and takes up exactly where the plot left off with the alpha pack in Beacon Hills. Contains spoilers all the way up until the end of season two. For the sake of not having to refer to Stiles' father as just that, "Stiles' father" or "The sheriff" I've named him John, which seems to be a popularly accepted name for him as far as fanfiction goes. Finally, this is a Derek/Stiles fic and it will contain mature scenes later on. You've been warned.

* * *

"_You know when you're drowning you don't actually inhale until right before you blackout. It's called voluntary apnea. It's like no matter how much you're freaking out, the instinct to not let any water in is so strong that you won't open your mouth until you feel like your head's exploding. Then when you finally do let it in that's when it stops hurting. It's not scary anymore. It's... It's actually kind of peaceful." _

_— __Stiles Stilinski_

* * *

Traffic lights flashed ahead, glaring off the rain-splattered windshield of his jeep. The steady, muted drumming of the rain droned in the background, nearly canceled out by the familiar soft roar of the engine beneath him. Stiles gazed out his windshield, his eyes looking, but not truly seeing as he drove. His hands trembled on the steering wheel and he clenched it tighter, trying to still them, but it was useless. It wasn't just his hands that trembled. It was all of him. He could still see it. Every time he closed his eyes, it burned behind his eyelids, painfully vivid like a nightmare he couldn't shake: The sight of his father lying unconscious in a hospital bed, wrapped in red-stained bandages as doctors and nurses scrambled around him. It wasn't just the sight that haunted him. It was everything: The suffocating stench of illness and cleaners, the insistent whirring and beeping of hospital machines, the sound of his father's breathing, unbearably pained and shallow, but worse of all, the repressed memories it all brought back.

Stiles sighed and leaned his head back against his seat, closing his eyes briefly as he stopped at a red light. He stayed that way for a few seconds, not allowing himself to think, to feel, until a honk behind him jolted him back to reality. This time he forced his mind away from his father, recalling instead a night one week ago. It had been little over a week after Gerald had disappeared and Jackson had finally transformed into a werewolf. Things had finally seemed like they were settling down. His face had healed from Gerald's abuse. Jackson was no longer transforming into a kanima and killing people. Scott and him had started practicing lacrosse together. It was the closest to normal you could get with werewolves. He had returns home late that day, exhausted and frustrated after an incredibly unfair lacrosse practice session with Scott. All he had wanted to do was collapse on his bed and sleep. The only problem was it was already occupied...

_Stiles froze, one hand still on his doorknob. In the thick silence, he could hear his father moving around downstairs, flicking the TV on and settling in to relax for the night. Slowly he let the doorknob go, his hand falling limply to his side. Finally, it had seemed like he'd be able to breathe again, after days and days of constantly feeling like he was suffocating, drowning almost—hypervigilance, that's what Ms. Morrell had called it. The feeling of constantly being under threat. Only, it wasn't just a feeling, not now when sitting on his bed, a Rubik's cube moving effortlessly in his hand, was one of the most dangerous men he knew. Almost as if he knew what he was thinking, Peter raised his head and his eyes seemed to pierce right through Stiles. With one final click, Peter set the completed Rubik's cube on Stiles' bedside table. _

"_Interesting thing, the Rubik's cube. Did you know it was invented by a Hungarian professor in 1973?" Peter commented idly. _

"_What are you doing here?" Stiles asked. _

"_Don't look so solemn. I'm only here to talk," Peter told him. "I thought you might like to know something. When a new alpha is chosen, a pack known as an alpha pack comes to challenge him. In our case, they're already here in Beacon Hills. Meaning right now, there is a pack of some of the most dangerous creatures on earth here in this small little town."_

_Stiles swallowed, stunned. Apprehension and distrust rose inside him as one as he wondered if Peter's words were true. If they were, Scott didn't know. When he found his voice, he responded, "Why are you telling me this? Shouldn't you be telling Scott or Jackson—you know, fellow werewolves." _

"_Do I sense a touch of bitterness?" Peter asked slyly, and Stiles stiffened. He looked away, missing Peter's smirk. "It must be so hard for you, being a human when everyone else around you is so much stronger. Especially now when times are so dangerous. If it was me, I'd feel so pathetically useless having to always watch from the sidelines. I'd be terrified that one day, somebody I loved would die all because I was too weak to protect them—"_

"_You really wouldn't have to worry about that, would you? You know, with everyone you care about being dead and all. And the Rubik's cube was invented in 1974, not 73," Stiles interrupted, his voice uncharacteristically cold, but not enough to hide the tremor in it. Peter stilled, regarding him silently, and then he smiled a dangerous smile. _

"_You see, that's what I like about you Stiles. You never quite know when to keep that smart tongue of yours in check." _

_Peter stood and Stiles stepped back automatically, bumping into the wall. His fear was tangible in the air and Peter smirked haughtily, able to sense it. He looked down at Stiles as if he was as insignificant as a bug. Embarrassment and shamed burned through Stiles. _

"_With the alpha pack here, Derek needs as many werewolves as possibly on his side. As things are now with half his pack abandoning him and the other half holding little loyalty towards him, he doesn't stand a chance against them when they challenge him—and they will challenge him. I'd say he's desperate enough to turn anyone who asks at this point."_

_Peter trailed off, his words lingering in the air. Then he turned away from Stiles and strolled over to the open window. He stopped with one foot on the windowsill and looked back at Stiles. _

"_My offer still stands Stiles, same as before. Think it over. The new hideout is that creepy abandoned factory near the cemetery—not my decision by the way." _

_And with that, Peter was gone, stepping through the window and dropping silently through the air. Stiles stared at the empty window for a few, long seconds, unmoving, and then his knees gave out beneath him. He sunk heavily against the wall and slid down it until he was sitting on the floor, knees drawn to his chest. He released a shaky breath, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Peter's words repeated in his head, mocking him. He knew the reason Peter had come, the reason behind his words. Subtlety wasn't Peter's strong suit. Manipulation, however, was and Stiles hated that it was actually working. Silently, Stiles raised his hands and looked at them. They shook with fear._

The sound of the car door shutting echoed in the silence and Stiles stepped away from his jeep, hugging his jacket tighter around him. The rain had lightened into a drizzle, soft wet drops running down his face and seeping into his collar as he faced ahead. The old abandoned factory loomed before him, dark and ominous in the night. Nearly all of its dozens of windows were broken, multiple ball-shaped holes visible in the dirty glass. This parking lot used to be a popular place for kids to play until, multiple broken windows later, the police had posted a sign banning entrance. His eyes found a broken window to the far right, lingering on it. He still remembered the day Scott and him had broken it. They had been young, only twelve or thirteen, and had been playing lacrosse in the parking lot. The ball had slipped passed Scott's defenses and right through the window. The two had bolted at once, running as fast as they could while they laughed.

Looking at the intimidating building, the brief impulse to run away just like he had that day filled him, but he resisted it, pushing it deep down inside him. He was tried on constantly feeling like he was running. Stiles knew he was being reckless—no, this went beyond just reckless. He was always reckless. This... There wasn't even a word for this level of stupidity. And yet, knowing he was probably making the biggest mistake in his life, he approached the building without looking back. He had already made his decision the second he had laid eyes on his father in a hospital bed.

The steel doors creaked loudly as he pushed them open, the sound like a gunshot in the silent night. He half-expected to find himself facing a trap, but all that met him was a large, empty room with rusted metal garbage strewn about and dust. As he walked inside, broken glass crunched under his shoes. There was no sign the building was being used as a hideout, not that Stiles had really expected any. Derek didn't seem to be the furniture buying or decorating type.

"Derek!" Stiles called out, his voice echoing around him. "I know you're here!"

He waited for a response, but none came. With every passing second of nothing, his confidence began to fade. For the first time he considered Peter might have been playing with him. Maybe the man got a sick, demented kick out of messing with his head so easily.

"Derek, if you're here you better get your werewolf ass out here or else!" Stiles yelled as a last resort. Still nothing. He sighed heavily and finished under his breath, "Or else, I'll do absolutely nothing."

Stiles turned around to leave and abruptly froze, his heart nearly bursting out of his chest. Derek blocked the door, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

"Jesus!" Stiles swore, his heart hammering in his chest. "How did you—where did you—"

"How did you know I was here?" Derek asked, cutting him off. Everything about his presence was unwelcoming.

"Excellent question," Stiles said, stalling for an excuse.

"I told him," A voice said and Peter stepped out of the shadows, strolling leisurely towards them. Peter met Stiles' eyes and Stiles felt the wave of hatred that gaze always brought wash through him. Peter smirked, as if he could sense it. "Glad to see you came Stiles. I had my doubts."

Stiles didn't respond, knowing it was a lie. He could see it in his eyes, the same knowing look he had the last time they had spoke. It was the same look he had when Stiles had refused The Bite from him in the past.

"Will on you tell me what is going on?" Derek asked. "What is _he_ doing here?"

"Why are you here?" Peter asked Stiles, although he already knew.

There was only one reason why he would come here. Stiles took a deep breath, steeling himself. The moment had come. He faced Derek—Derek who still scared him—and met the man's eyes, forcing himself not to look away. His heart thudded loudly in his chest. He was sure they could hear it. He swallowed hard, his tongue swiping his lips nervously, before he opened his mouth. There was a beat of silence and then Stiles spoke the words that would change everything.

"I want you to turn me."

A heavy silence followed his words, becoming heavier with every passing second. Derek looked at him as if he had lost his mind and Stiles began to wonder if he had, the thought reenforced when saw the undisguised satisfaction in Peter's dark eyes.

"You can't be serious," Derek said finally, breaking the silence.

"Oh, I belief he is," Peter said, and Derek turned to him.

"_Him_ a werewolf? I'd rather rip out my own throat."

"Come on, he can't be that bad."

"Have you ever talked to him?"

"Standing right here," Stiles said. He regretted it when Derek turned back to him.

"Why do you suddenly want to become a werewolf?" Derek asked, searching Stiles' face as if he expected to find the answer there.

"I wouldn't say it's suddenly," Peter answered before Stiles could, and Stiles felt a stab of relief. He didn't want to explain himself now. He wasn't even sure if he could. The only thing keeping his emotions at bay was not allowing himself to think about it.

"Does Scott know about this?" Derek asked and Stiles tensed. He had been avoiding that thought, pushing it to the very back of his mind. He knew Scott would be against this. The idea of going behind his best friend's back hurt, but not doing anything was so much more unbearable.

"No, but this is my decision to make, not his," Stiles said. Derek's expression didn't change and Stiles pressed on. "Look, you need me. Werewolves are stronger in numbers right? With those alphas around, you need all the help you can get."

"How do you even know about that?"

"Me again," Peter said, raising a hand. Derek growled at him, his eyes flashing red briefly.

"I'm the alpha now, not you. I choose who joins me pack."

"I understand completely, but you see, Stiles here is the idea candidate. He has the same goal as us: to get stronger."

Derek turned to Stiles for confirmation and Stiles nodded. Derek looked at him intently, searching his face again, and this time his gaze lingered on Stiles' eyes. Stiles stared back, not looking away. He knew Derek must have noticed the red-rimming his eyes. Derek sighed before he finally spoke a last.

"Look, if I turn you, you have to do what I say, do you understand? If you think I'll just bite you and you can run off on your own, then you can leave right now. If I turn you, I'm your alpha."

"I kind of figured as much."

"That means when the time comes you will have to face the alpha pack with me. There's a good chance you will die, if the bite doesn't end up killing you first and it could."

Stiles swallowed and tried to sound confident as he said, "I know."

They stared at each other for a long time, neither of them backing down, and then Derek nodded. "Fine."

He grabbed Stiles' right arm and pulled his jacket sleeve up, exposing his skin to the cold air. Stiles watched as Derek raised his arm to his mouth, his eyes turning red. The instinct to pull away ceased him, just like it had that night with Peter, but he forced it down, his arm tensing in Derek's grasp. For one brief second, Derek's lips were on his skin, sending a jolt racing through him, and then he sunk his fangs into his forearm. Pain exploded through him like fire, burning up his arm and he tried to jerk away reflexively, but Derek's vice-like grip held him in place. As if in response to the fire tracing through his veins, a cool, burning ice surged up to meet it, starting in his stomach and tracing the length of his body. It flowed through him with a shudder, dousing the heat and leaving him feeling like he had been drenched in ice cold water. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as the ice neared it, seconds away from consuming it, and then, abruptly, Derek released him and the world was thrown back into relief around him, sharper and clearer than before.

Stiles stared down at the bloody bite mark on his forearm, pain throbbing and pulsing around it. The cool ice began to fade and Stiles raised his head, meeting Derek's eye. Derek stared back at him, his eyes wide. He looked as if he had seen a ghost.

"What?" Stiles asked, breaking the silence. For a second, Stiles could've sworn he has heard Derek's heart skip, but he brushed the thought aside. There was no way The Bite would work that quickly. Derek snapped out of his shock and cleared his throat, but he never stopped staring into Stiles' eyes. Stiles shifted uncomfortably and did his best to ignore the way Derek's intense gaze made his stomach flip.

"It's nothing," Derek said. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then thought better of it. Instead, he continued, "Go home Stiles. Tomorrow we'll know for sure if it worked or not."

Stiles nodded and pulled his sleeve down, his jacket immediately gluing to his wound. As he left, nursing his right arm, he didn't notice Derek's eyes on him, intense and questioning, nor did he notice the dangerous, satisfied smirk on Peter's face. The ride home was a blur, his body taking over as his mind zoned out. All he could think about was the bite on his forearm and the feeling of Derek's lips on his skin for those brief few seconds before he had bitten him. He fiddled with his jacket sleeve the whole ride, pulling it away from his bite only for it to immediately re-glue itself once he let it go. When he got home, he sat in the driveway for a few minutes, in no hurry to go inside the empty house. With a sigh, he finally got out of his car. As he walked by, his gaze lingered on the empty spot his father usually parked. His car was still sitting in the police station's parking lot, waiting for the sheriff to come take it home.

He shuffled up to the door and fished his keys out of his pockets. He tried to open the door, but found that he couldn't. His hands were shaking. The key scraped against the lock, refusing to go in. No matter how hard he tried he could get the damn key to still, the shaking only increasing. After a dozen failed attempts, Stiles threw the keys to the ground, swearing loudly. His breathing was ragged, as if his body wasn't getting enough oxygen no matter how much air he sucked in. It wasn't supposed to be like. The Bite was supposed to cure his fear, but even as he thought this, he knew this wasn't because of fear. He sunk against the door, slipping down it until he was sitting on his porch, knees to his chest and head buried in his hands. He could feel the panic creeping through him and he forced himself to take deep breaths. It was times like this it came in handy that his mind always worked in double speed. He raced through random thoughts and topics, not allowing himself to think about the panic attack. Finally the attack subsided and he leaned heavily against the door, clutching the front of his shirt. It had been years since his last panic attack. They hadn't gotten any funner.

When he regained control of himself, he picked up his keys and successfully unlocked the door at last. He rinsed his arm off in the sink and was about to grab the first aid kit from the drawer when he caught sit of it. He stared at his arm, stunned. All that was left of the bite was a faint pink outline of Derek's teeth.

That night, Stiles tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. The place Derek had bitten him kept itching. No matter how many times he scratched it the sensation wouldn't go away. Daylight had just begun to creep in through the windows when he finally passed out, hugging his right forearm to his chest. His dream was a blur of faces and emotions. He was at the hospital again, standing by his father's side, a familiar burning sensation in his eyes as he tried to hold back tears. The doctor was there, telling him how it had happened. An animal attack. The police suspected a mountain lion. And then, suddenly, it was Stiles in a hospital bed, sitting on the crisp white sheets, his small legs dangling off the side as a doctor flashed a light in his eyes. The doctor's mouth was moving, but no sound left his lips as seven year old Stiles just stared back at him, puffy, red-rimmed eyes void of emotion, dead to the world. Then he was being hugged by his father, his small body buried in the man's chest as he hugged him tighter than he had ever hugged him in his life. Something wet was falling on his small shoulders as a single phrase kept repeating in his ear: _Thank god you're okay. _

Stiles curled onto his side, his hand clutching his sheets tightly as tears slid out from his close eyelids, running sideways down his cheeks and disappearing into his sheets. The dream changed then and Stiles found himself reliving the moment Derek had bitten him, the sadness fading. Derek's lips brushed his forearm, burning him, and then he sunk his teeth into his flesh. Ice seared through Stiles and Stiles tossed and turned on his bed as the sensation filled him, a layer of cold sweat coating his body. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breathing coming out in gasps. The ice traced his body, filling him, on a course straight for his heart—

The alarm blared and Stiles jerked right out of his bed, falling to the floor in a heap of limbs and sheets. He groaned from his upside down position on the floor, his heart hammering furiously in his chest. He disentangled himself from his sheets and stood, shivering. Despite the sweat covering his body, he was cold—very cold. He hit his alarm clock offhandedly, effectively silencing it, and stumbled out of his room to the bathroom. The first thing he did was take a hot shower to warm himself up. It worked. He headed back into his room, a towel around his waist, and got dress. When he was done, he glanced at his alarm clock to check the time and promptly froze, eyes wide. All that remained of his alarm clock was a mangled heap of broken plastic.

"What," Stiles began, and then it dawned on him. He looked down at his hands in disbelief, flexing his fingers. They looked the same as always. No claws or abnormal body hair and yet, there was something different about them. It took Stiles a second to realize what it was was: They weren't shaking. For the first time in days, he wasn't terrified. He drew in a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand, and released it slowly, a grin overcoming his face. He felt great, exhilarated even. He could breathe again as if some huge weight had been lifted off his chest. He could understand now why getting bitten had transformed Erica and Isaac so much. There was a confidence inside him he had never had before, making him feel stronger than he had ever remembered feeling in his life. It was if he could suddenly do anything.

He was brought crashing back to reality by his phone and he picked it up from his bedside table. Scott's name flashed on the screen, a short message of _Good Morning_ written underneath. Instantly Stiles' good mood deflated. Scott never text him good morning. Stiles thumb hesitated over the reply button before he flicked the screen off and slipped his phone into his pocket, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach. He knew the text was Scott's attempt of checking on him without outright asking if he was okay. Before Stiles would've appreciate the concern, but now it only filled him with guilt, reminding him of the huge secret he was keeping from his best friend. He didn't even know where to begin when it came to telling him, so for now Stiles intended to treat the problem like he always did: ignoring it for as long as he possibly could.

Coach Finstock had started scheduling lacrosse practices in the morning along with after school practices, due to the team nearly getting defeated in their last game if it wasn't for Stiles. If it had been any other coach, it would've been a praise to Stiles, but Coach Finstock had somehow twisted it into an insult, stating that if they needed Balinski to come to the rescue there was something seriously wrong with the team. Stiles was a few minutes late by the time he got changed and on the field, but thankfully the coach was too busy yelling at Greenberg to notice. The second Scott saw him, he pulled him off to the side.

"What's up?" Stiles asked, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

In answer, Scott nodded his head at the field and Stiles followed his gaze. It took him a second to find what Scott was looking at and then his eyes widened.

"Is that...?" He began, and Scott nodded.

"Jackson is back."

Ever since transforming into a werewolf, Jackson had stopped coming to school, keeping a low profile. The school counselor, Ms. Morrell, had told them Jackson needed some time to adjust. Now that he was no longer being controlled, all of his suppressed memories of everything he had done as the kanima had returned. It also didn't help Jackson that the whole lacrosse team and their friends and family had witnessed him get carried off by an ambulance, gravely injured.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but before he could speak a yell of "Balinski!" interrupted him. Stiles turned just in time to catch the lacrosse stick Coach Finstock threw at him.

"Field now," The coach ordered him.

"I'm playing?" Stiles asked, stunned.

"No, I want you to just stand there and look pretty—yes you're playing. Now get a move on before I change my mind," The coach told him, before he walked away, blowing his whistle to get the team's attention.

Stiles looked at Scott in amazement and Scott laughed, giving him a push and telling him to go. Stiles trotted onto the field, his heart racing in his chest as excitement pulsed through him. Even having to get awkwardly herded to where he was supposed to be positioned by some very annoyed teammates didn't puncture his elated mood. It wasn't until he found himself facing off with none other than Jackson that his good mood died, shriveling up and going cold inside him. They placed their sticks in position, the ball between him.

"Normally, I would bring up that I have a restraining order against you," Jackson said, raising his head and meeting his eyes through his face mask. "But I'm looking forward to grounding you into the dirt."

Jackson's grip on his lacrosse stick tightened threateningly and Stiles swallowed audibly, internally freaking out that Jackson was going to kill him. Then Jackson smirked haughtily at him, just like Peter had that night. Instantly Stiles blood pressure sky-rocketed, his head gone as anger overtook him. The whistle blew, the sound piercing the air. Stiles watched Jackson's muscles bunch up to move as if it was in slow motion. Before Jackson could even move his stick, Stiles move faster then humanely possibly, scooping the ball into the pocket of his stick. He got a glimpse of Jackson's shocked expression for a second and then he was off, side-stepping Jackson swiftly and running down the field. He effortlessly twisted to avoid the opposing team, his body moving swifter than he had ever moved in his life, as if he was a completely new person. He felt cool, literally, as if ice was flooding through his veins—Realization crashed through Stiles and then, abruptly, he tripped over his own feet and went crashing to the ground, the ball flying away from him.

He laid on the ground for a few seconds, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm himself down, before he pushed himself to his feet. The icy sensation receded and with it his adrenaline. He removed his helmet and hobbled dramatically off the field and over to the coach.

"What in the hell was that Balinski?" Coach Finstock asked the second Stiles reached him. "You were doing phenomenal, like a completely different person, and then suddenly you were yourself again."

"I twisted my ankle. I don't think I can play anymore," Stiles lied, not meeting his eyes as he purposefully avoided the coach's question.

Coach Finstock studied him for a second before he nodded and turned away from him. "Just go sit on the bench."

Stiles watched the coach walk away, feeling sick to his stomach. He knew what the coach was thinking as if he had said it allowed. Just the same old Balinski. Stiles eyes tightened and he turned away, heading over to the bench. Scott jogged over to him.

"How on earth did you do that? That was amazing!" Scott said. "Well, before you tripped that is."

"I'm full of surprises," Stiles told him, a touch of bitterness in his voice that went unnoticed by Scott.

"McCall are you planning on joining us today?" The coach interrupted, and Scott trotted over to rejoin the team. Stiles spent the rest of practice watching from the bench. Scott, Isaac, and Jackson were by far the best on the team by a long-shot, their speed and movements impossible for a human. Watching them on the field, using their werewolf abilities, just made sitting on the bench all the harder. One thing Stiles was certain about was that The Bite had worked, but instead of being one of the werewolf on the field, using his new abilities, he had to hide it because as much as he wanted to be on that field, basking in the glory, he wasn't ready for Scott to know yet. Scott might not be the most observant person in the world, but he would definitely notice if his best friend suddenly acquired impossible reflexes and skills. A nagging, bitter part of him reminded him that all the practice he had been doing lately in hopes of playing in the next game had been a complete waste of time, and it was that part of him that made his heart sink painfully with disappointment.

Stiles managed to make it through the school day without Scott finding out. Any strange behavior he showed, like nearly walking into a wall because he was listening intently to a group of girls down the hallway discussing a new line of Victoria Secret's bras that had been released or gagging spectacularly after walking into a cloud of putrid cologne, Scott assumed it was due to his father being in the hospital or that it was just Stiles being Stiles. At first Stiles had been afraid Scott would smell the change in him, like he had that time in the locker room after Isaac had turned, but it quickly became clear that Scott had other things on his mind like if the break he was on with Allison was only for a short time or long term, or why Allison had been talking to Jeremy from English. It wasn't until they were on their way to chemistry Stiles had a problem with his werewolf abilities. The bell went off and pain exploded in Stiles' head as the sound was amplified a dozen times over, threatening to burst his eardrums. He doubled over with a pain groan, clutching his head.

"What's wrong?" Scott asked, concerned.

"I have to do the bathroom. Ill meet you in class," Stiles told him quickly, the words coming through clenched teeth. He escaped into the bathroom which was thankfully only a few feet from them, over aware of Scott's bewildered gaze on him. Although the bell was no longer ringing, his head still pounded painfully. He headed over to the sink and splashed cold water onto his face. He needed to learn how to control his hearing and quickly before he either went deaf or died of a massive headache. He had been doing so good with it up until now. Sighing, he looked into the mirror and his heart nearly burst out of his chest.

"Oh my god," He gasped out as he turned around to face Derek, his heart hammering in his chest. "Are you trying to kill me? How did you even get in here? You're like a god damn ninja—"

"Shut up," Derek ordered him and Stiles closed his mouth. "Let me see your arm."

Stiles held out his right forearm for Derek to see. He hadn't bothered wearing sleeves because there was nothing there to see. When he had woken up this morning, even the faint outline of Derek's teeth had been gone, leaving only healed, unblemished skin as if he hadn't just been bitten the night before by a werewolf. Derek looked at the smooth skin for a second before he nodded, as if he had confirmed some suspicion or thought he had.

"We start training today as soon as you get out of a school, which by the way you shouldn't have come to without knowing how to control yourself," Derek told him. Stiles almost laughed. Derek Hale was scolding him. That should not have been anywhere near as funny as Stiles found it. Instead, Stiles focused on the first part.

"I can't train after school," Stiles told him. Derek looked at him, raising an eyebrow and Stiles resisted the urge to shrink under that look. "I've got plans to see my dad after school."

"What are you, a little kid? Just talk to him when you get home later. This is more important—"

"My dad's in the hospital."

Derek faltered, clearly having not known this. Stiles pretended to be oblivious to the new look Derek was giving him now, knowing the man was relating his sudden decision to be turned to this new revelation. All Derek said however was, "You've got an hour. Don't be late."

Footsteps sounded outside the bathroom door then and just for a second Stiles looked at it. When he turned back, Derek was gone. Stiles' eyes moved to the window which was wide-open, despite the safety locks that were placed on it to stop students from being able to open it. Stiles stared at it for a second and then the doorknob jiggled, and Stiles turned away. As a guy walked in, Stiles brushed passed him and made his way to chemistry. He was, of course, late. The second he stepped inside, Harris spoke.

"Detention, Stilinski," He said, not bothering to look up from the board as he wrote.

"I can't," Stiles protested, though he knew it was useless. Harris looked at him and then something happened that shocked Stiles to his core. The teacher's hardened expression actually softened slightly, just a little, but enough for Stiles to be scared for his life. Mr. Harris turned back to the board.

"Just this once I'll let you off with a warning. Now, take your seat before I change my mind."

Stiles wasted no time in taking his seat, relieved and still shocked. He knew something must be seriously wrong for Mr. Harris to be treating him civilly, and he understood. In such a small town, word that the sheriff was hospitalized would've spread like wildfire. Apparently, father in the hospital beat life-time grudge even if said father was the cause of said grudge. Stiles caught Scott's questioning gaze.

"Had to crap," Stiles whispered to him rather loudly. In front of him, Danny made a disgusted sound. Scott grinned. Then Harris cleared his throat pointedly and Stiles immediately turned to face the front, not willing to push how far Harris' new pity for him went. The rest of the school day passed by quickly and before Sties knew it he was on his way to the hospital to visit his dad. He had skipped lacrosse practice, giving Scott the excuse that his ankle was still hurting. He couldn't sit through another practice watching from the bench today. When he walked into his dad's hospital room, he found his dad sitting up in his bed, awake. The sheriff looked up and smiled when he saw him.

Stiles threw himself at him, hugging the man tighter than he had ever hugged him in his life. If it hurt, his father showed no sign of pain, only returning his hug just as tightly. For the first time since he had came upon his father lying in the hospital bed, Stiles was on the verge of crying. All the pent up emotions had been suppressing surged through him now in a burst of pure relief. It wasn't just the stress of his father's injuries that had affected him so heavily. The two had barely spoken more than a word to each other since that night with Matt as the police station. Stiles knew the man hadn't been completely convinced by the lie Stiles came up to cover it all, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to tell his father the truth, not after seeing how badly Scott's mom had taken it. The most they've talked since was when Stiles had shown up in his room, bloody and bruised with more lies to tell.

"What happened last night?" Stiles managed finally, finding his voice with some difficulty as he released him.

"I... I honestly don't know," John said heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I got an anonymous call at the station telling me a dead body was found near the outskirts of the woods. While I was inspecting the area I found nothing. No body. No blood. Not even any tracks. I was about to leave when a man's silhouette among the trees—or at least I thought it was man."

The sheriff's forehead furrowed and Stiles felt a stab of pain when he saw the brief lost expression his father showed. Then it was gone just as fast as it had appeared.

"A set of bright blue eyes pierced through the darkness and the next thing I knew I was on the ground, a gigantic animal of some kind on top of me," John continued. "The animal's eyes were the same shade of blue."

"What kind of animal was it?" Stiles asked, doing his best to sound nonchalant.

His dad was silent for a long second before answered, shaking his head slightly. "I could've sworn it a was a wolf, but there hasn't been wolves in California in—"

"Sixty years," Stiles finished. His dad nodded and then he shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts.

"More importantly, how have you been? Have you been eating and going to bed on time? Don't think just because I'm not home to keep an eye on you, you can do whatever you want," John told him sternly, only half-joking. Stiles smiled, more at the irony than anything. If his father had any idea just what he had done, he didn't know how the man would react.

Stiles visited his father for awhile longer, pulling up a hospital chair and making himself comfortable. They talked about ordinary, average day stuff like how school was going or how bad the hospital food was. They carefully avoided talking anymore about the accident, adding one more subject to the list of things they danced around. Certain topics had become off-limits in their conversations, like anything related to Derek Hale or anything about the incident with Matt. His father had realized he was never going to get an honest answer out of Stiles and so he had just stopped asking. It pained Stiles as much as it relieved him. When Stiles glanced at the clock and saw that it was already half-past four, he forced himself to say goodbye to his father and left. As he drove to the abandon factory, he wondered what exactly 'training' meant.

Training didn't turn out at all like Stiles had expected. There had been apart of him that had been excited over the idea of training, his mind conjuring up old martial arts movies and replacing Bruce Lee with himself. He had forgotten just who it was training him. Ten minutes into training it quickly became clear that he was no Bruce Lee, or even Scott—that had been a particularly hard blow to his pride when Derek threw it in his face. Stiles was growing increasingly more convinced with every passing minute that he was the worse werewolf on earth. He couldn't even wolf-up.

"Just get mad!" Derek snapped at him, his patience wearing thin.

"I am mad!" Stiles yelled back, and he was mad, very mad and very, very irritated after being yelled at by Derek for the last five minutes.

"Not mad enough!"

"I beg to differ!"

Derek released a long, angry breath as he glared at Stiles and said through gritted teeth, "This isn't working."

"No shit Sherlock," Stiles muttered, earning a glare from Derek he returned with a glare of his own. He still hadn't forgotten the Scott insult.

"Hold out your hand," Derek said abruptly.

"Why?" Stiles asked, but did it anyways. "What are you going to—"

He never got to finish. Without warning, Derek snapped his middle finger back viciously, breaking the fragile bone and Stiles dissolved into a torrent of swear words and vicious threats as he cradled his finger to his chest, rage firing through him.

"I hate you. God, I hate you," Stiles said, the words coming out more as a whine as he looked down at his poor finger. Derek rolled his eyes.

"Don't be a baby. It's already healing."

He was right of course, but that didn't stop Stiles from giving him a wounded look, resembling a kicked puppy. Derek ignored the look and there was satisfaction in his face now as he looked at Stiles.

"About time."

Stiles stared at him, wondering what he was talking about. It wasn't until then he realized his internal body temperature had dropped drastically, particularly in his newly healed finger. It was the same feeling he had when he had destroyed his alarm clock beyond repair and after seeing Jackson's smirk. The coldness pulsed through him, rising along with his blood-pressure. Tentatively, Stiles reached up and felt his face. It was hairless and normal. His fingers moved to his teeth. His normal, human teeth were gone, replaced by sharp fangs. His fingernails had also chance into sharp claws as well he realized after almost stabbing his own eye out.

"Ha, this is awesome, though I really don't approve of your methods," Stiles said, poking at his fangs with his fingers. He pulled his fingers away and barred his fangs at Derek in a way he meant to look vicious, but really made him look like a puppy with an attitude. "You've got a mirror."

"Focus," Derek growled at him, thoroughly irritated at this point. Despite his harsh voice, Stiles noticed Derek was staring at him again, the same way he had last night. Before he could read too much into it, Derek announced, "Now, we start training."

Stiles gulped when he saw the look on Derek's face. If training had sucked before he wolfed-up, this was far worse. Stiles was quickly learning that training in Derek's definition basically meant become a punching bag. After the fifth time of being thrown to the ground, Stiles was seriously never getting up again and quitting being a werewolf. Could you even do that?

"You're not trying hard enough," Derek said relentlessly when Stiles finally pushed himself to his feet. Stiles glared darkly at him in response. "If you're not going to take this seriously, then why did you even ask me to turn you?" Stiles flinched, his eyes tightening. Derek continued, not noticing the effect his words had, had on him "At this rate, when it comes to fighting the alpha pack you're going to get slaughtered. You don't stand a chance against them in a fight—"

"Let's go again," Stiles growled, cutting him off. Derek raised his eyebrows in surprise at his change before he nodded, and Stiles crouch down to attack once again.

Although physically nothing had changed, Stiles still getting floored every time he tried to attack Derek, there was a difference in the teen that surprised Derek. As soon as his back hit the ground, no matter how violently or painfully, Stiles rolled right back onto his feet and wasted no time in charging against. It wasn't until the fourth time, when Stiles managed to get a punch in, that Derek realized the teen was improving. He would've been far more impressed however if Stiles hadn't immediately begun cheering and fist pumping the air after the punch, reverting back to his normal, human form in his ecstasy at having actually punched Derek Hale.

"That's enough training for today," Derek said, rolling his jaw where Stiles had landed the punch.

"Afraid I might hurt you?" Stiles asked with a grin, his excitement making him forget that provoking Derek Hale was probably not the smartest thing to do. Derek only gave him a withering look before he jerked a thumb at one of the many broken windows. Stiles followed the gesture and saw that it was already night. Not even a trace of sunlight remained in the sky. He also noted he could see incredibly well in the dark now, well enough that he hadn't even noticed the difference.

"Come here tomorrow, same time," Derek told him. Stiles nodded offhandedly as he grabbed his jacket and phone from where he had laid them on the floor after the first time Derek had floored him. He fumbled with his phone as he left, checking the time: 11:03pm. And he had a dozen of missed calls and messages from Scott.

It didn't occur to Stiles until he was already climbing into his jeep that Derek had not only included time for him to visit, but had extended the time to well over the original hour. Now that he thought about it, Derek hadn't even complained about him being late like Stiles had thought he would. He pushed the thoughts away, knowing it was best for him not to dwell on Derek for too long, and instead busied himself with reading the messages from Scott. The first one asked how he was and then, after an hour of no reply, Scott begun sending him texts asking him if he was there and why he wasn't responding, his texts growing increasingly more concerned with every one that went without a reply. His stomach churned sickeningly when he read that Scott had stopped by his house after hearing from his father that he had gone home hours ago and had found it empty. He had even climbed in through his bedroom window to make sure he wasn't there, which, on any other day, would've earned a lecture from Stiles about invasions of privacy and breaking and entering. Finally Stiles reached the last one. He read it over and over, absorbing the words, before he tossed his phone aside with a mutter of "Fuck."

He slammed his head back against his seat with a groan, before he remembered that Derek had more than likely heard him and knew he was still sitting in his car like an idiot. With that thought in mind, he started up his car and began the drive home. Scott's text kept repeating in his head, making him feel sick to his stomach. Of course Scott would freak out about not being able to get in touch with Stiles. With all the crap they've been through, it was only natural. Stiles had already gone missing once. Still out of all the things Scott decided to end his texts with, he choose the one thing that made Stiles feel worst than anything else could possibly have made him feel. He had even taken the care of writing it all out instead of his usual horrible texting grammar.

**From Scott, received 10:12pm:**

_You know you can talk to me right? About anything._


End file.
